Alleluia
by girlfriday900
Summary: Everyone has their peculiar family traditions. Sherlock wakes up one morning to the bright sound of a large string orchestra and the smell of pancakes.


_**Alleluia**_

Sherlock Holmes of 221b Baker St liked to think that he, as a general rule, appreciated music. He also prided himself on his disdain for common, human weaknesses such as sleep. And yet, on the morning of the 31st of August when the bright, thrumming tones of a large string orchestra began to penetrate his drowsing consciousness, bringing him slowly into the living world, he couldn't help but feel a deep, festering resentment.

"_Gloria! __Gloria!__"_ The sounds of a chapel choir rang about the small flat, blending effortlessly with the strings and brass. Beautiful, yes. Loud... yes. Much too loud.

Sherlock rolled over, blearily opening his eyes to face the kitchen- he absently noted he must have fallen asleep on the couch again. From his position he could see his stout, blond flatmate walking about, obviously engaged in some kind of food-preparation. Pancakes, from the smell of it. Groaning in frustration and unable to block out the sound, Sherlock twisted about, trying to get a glimpse of the clock. Half past eight. He moaned again, burying his head in his pillow. What on earth had John Watson up at half past eight in the morning, making _pancakes_ of all things?

The thought however, which had started off purely as seething frustration, began to take a life of his own. What _was_ the origin of this strange behaviour? Giving up on sleep at last, Sherlock rose from the couch, his hair and clothes disheveled. He worked the stiffness out of his neck as he observed his friend with narrowed eyes. John was humming along with the music. He followed every flourish and turn in the melody perfectly, which suggested to Sherlock that he knew the music quite well, except that he didn't appear to know the words- only singing along to the more obvious phrases. John hadn't proven to be a great lover of classical music over the couple months they had been sharing a flat which meant it wasn't an plethora of musical knowledge at the root of this forgetfulness so _then_; a piece of music that he _used_ to know well but hadn't heard in at least a year. John smiled as he hummed along so it must have some sort of emotional or historical significance...

Sherlock strolled over to the iPod dock through which the music played. He glanced at the title that scrolled across the screen- Vivaldi's '_Gloria in Excelsis Deo_'. Sherlock briefly scanned his memories, but it didn't seem as if John had ever mentioned the music to him before.

The clue was in the activity. John was making pancakes- Sherlock had never seen him cook pancakes before so the behaviour and the music were likely linked. Perhaps John had once had a tendency of playing this music whenever he was cooking pancakes- humans were creatures of habit after all, and the falling back into the routine would explain the man's irritating contentment. No, he amended, watching his friend. John was consulting a recipe on the phone that Harriet had given him. If he'd ever regularly cooked pancakes he wouldn't have forgotten how so soon. So. Someone _else_ used to play the music while cooking pancakes. Yes, that made much more sense. People didn't tend to get so sentimentally attached to their own habits, but family _traditions_ were a very different story.

Sherlock leaned against the door frame, now satisfied. "Was it your mother or your father?" he asked, by way of alerting John to his presence.

"Ah, you're up" John said, not sounding surprised at all.

"You're making pancakes" Sherlock observed, "you obviously don't know how to make pancakes, since you're reading from a recipe but from the music and your apparent good mood it would follow that the behaviour carries some kind of tradition behind it- family tradition. So then; was it your mother or your father?"

"My father" Watson acknowledged. Sherlock let the sweet satisfaction of being right flood him. It didn't last very long, however; John didn't appear to be particularly impressed. Sherlock hovered for a moment longer, but no '_Extraordinary!'_ issued from his flatmate's lips. Ever so slightly put out, Sherlock moved away from the door and sat down at the table.

"Do you like it?"

"Pardon?"

"The music; do you like it?"

The question had thrown him off-guard. What did it matter if he liked it?

"I used to be woken up every Sunday morning by this song, when I was a kid. Whenever I heard it playing I knew that my father was making pancakes, so I'd leap right out of bed" John remembered with a smile.

Sherlock took a moment to really listen, as the '_Alleluia's' _rang about their small kitchen. He studied the patterns of the strings, of the voices- four distinct musical lines; Soprano, Alto, Tenor, Bass... He could detect each modulation, each cadence... But did he like it? It had never occurred to him to even decide. He imagined Watson as a young boy, awoken by the soaring harmonies and the smell of pancakes on a Sunday morning. He wondered whether this would become a regular thing at Baker st too. Whether he would be awoken by the sounds of Vivaldi and John in the kitchen _every_ Sunday. He'd never really had family traditions as a child, unless you counted the excruciating family gatherings each holiday season, which Sherlock naturally didn't. Still, the more he listened, a small smile graced his lips.

"Of course I do."

John turned around then, with a surprised but pleased smile. "Yeah?"

It wasn't much longer before Sherlock sat before a plate of fresh, steaming pancakes, with a little maple syrup and butter melting over the top. "It looks marvellous." he said, all the ill feeling of fifteen minutes ago completely forgotten. John was still at the frying pan, humming along. When the chorus came to a decidedly more repetitive verse, he sung along to the 'Alleluia's under his breath. A sudden thought struck Sherlock, and he paused his eating.

"Do you know what it means?"

"What Alleluia means?" John clarified, jerked from his reverie.

"Yes."

"Huh..." John was silent for a few moments, like he was mulling it over. "I dunno, 'glory to God', I suppose. 'God is fantastic'?"

"No, although that interpretation amuses me in regards to the etymology of the the word 'fantastic'..." John didn't seem to take notice of his little joke, so he pressed on. "No, what actually happened was when they were writing hymns in Christianity's early days, they didn't have a word of praise that was quite up to the divine standard they felt was warranted by their heavenly creator figure. They invented a new one. Alleluia. The word of ultimate praise."

"Huh" John considered this. "So if you were to say Alleluia to someone, it would _really_ mean you thought they were the best thing since sliced bread."

"Since pancakes."

John smiled.

xXx

Sherlock narrowly avoided trampling an orderly to the floor as he flew down the hospital aisles, searching for the right room. When he finally bumped into someone in a white lab coat he grabbed them by the shoulders. "I'm looking for Doctor John Watson- he would have just been brought in."

"Are-" she looked a little stunned, "are you... family?"

"Yes, I'm his mother" Sherlock snapped. "_Tell__ me __where__ he __is!_"

She wordlessly pointed to a room at the end of the hall, and he strode over before slamming open the door. There lay John in hospital whites, bruising and swelling around his eye, a bandage wrapped around his forehead.

"How did you even get in here? I thought they only allowed family" Watson's words were slurred and his pupils dilated. He'd been given drugs.

"Are you alright? They said you'd been in an accident."

"Semi-trailer trying to overtake a learner-driver. Bloody bad timing if you ask me" John laughed weakly, gingerly trying to sit up. "Still, not missing any pieces, or so they tell me."

"You're all together" agreed Sherlock. "It looks like a fair amount of trauma in the temple-region but nothing you shouldn't recover from in a few weeks. You may encounter some spells of dizziness but from what I can make out there wont be any lasting damage." The relief at seeing his friend alright was making him a little light-headed, as he bounced on the balls of his feet, hands clenched into fists in his pockets. "You hungry?"

"_You're_ waiting on _me?_ This'll make a nice change" John quipped, finding himself to be fairly hilarious in his altered state of mind.

"I was thinking I could pop over the road," offered Sherlock, heading towards the door. There's a good Italian take-away place- better than this rubbish hospital food. What do you say?"

"Alleluia" John sighed, leaning back against his pillow.

Sherlock only paused at the door for a second, glancing over his shoulder. When he started off down the hall, he was smiling.

**A/N: There it is, I suppose. My first Sherlock ficlet. This one's pretty close to my heart, because John's family tradition of Vivaldi and pancakes is actually translated directly from my life. I thought it would be sweet if Sherlock and John developed some traditions of their own, the longer they lived together. Please, tell me what you think. Feedback is always muchly appreciated. =]**

**Candy**.


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